


A Job Well Done

by Cheloya



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. For all his faults, Malon is awful fond of Mr Ingo.





	A Job Well Done

She’d always enjoyed watching Mr Ingo while he worked, for all that he grouched and blustered. Usually after a few minutes of her enthusiastic chatter, he’d pick her up and balance her on a stall barrier and tell her in his surly way not to get under his feet. Some people had to work for a livin’, not that she’d know that, with her upbringin’. She’d loved watching the irritable expression on his face fade away as the day wore on and he lost himself in his work. He was only ever grumpy when he remembered to be.

She especially loved the harvest time, because it was the one time of the year where she could really go out and give him a hand. It was the one time of year she’d almost see him smile as she scrambled up every tree in the orchard and lobbed him apples one by one, cheering when he caught them all in his rope-weaved basket.

It was different as she got bigger – not harder, but more lonely. Mr Ingo left her to her chores and worked hard as ever, and the ranch got bigger, too. Funny how the more space there was, the bigger it got, the smaller she felt in it, and the further she felt from them all – her pretty horses and Mr Ingo with his dark swelling of ambition.

Wasn’t ‘til the fairy boy came back, just before the harvest time, that things started to feel okay again – with her papa back on the ranch and Mr Ingo grouchin’ and cursin’ and telling her in his surly way that she’d best get on outta the stables if she didn’t want her dress gettin’ all dirtied up. She didn’t care about the dress, but she pulled herself up on a stall barrier and kept her feet clear, singing and chattering until he gave her his rope-weaved basket and told her to get on out there and pick herself some apples ‘fore he had to pick his self a new set of earmuffs.

It wasn’t as much fun without Mr Ingo to hold the basket and run around all over tryin’ to save the fruit from hittin’ the ground, but she’d always been awful fond of the pressin’ and the special bottle of last year’s cider that her papa always let her have a taste of once all this year’s stuff was done. She was awful fond of those sly, secret sips and Mr Ingo’s red-cheeked guffaws when she slurped the whole mug.


End file.
